


Fen'Harel Enansal

by NorroenDyrd



Series: My Precious Heathen [10]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Crisis of Faith, Gen, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Prayer, Spiritual, The Chantry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:21:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5416874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arryn Lavellan, the once proud Dalish heathen, is no longer certain what to believe, following the reveals of Trespasser. Not knowing where else to turn, he comes to the most unlikely place where one could find him  - the Chantry - and lights a candle for a good friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fen'Harel Enansal

The service is over, and the congregation has slowly trickled off back home, leaving the dimly lit hall empty – and so quiet that the slightest disturbance in the dense, dusty stillness sets off an eerie echo. A disturbance like, for instance, the prolonged creak of the old wooden door, and the slow, hesitant footfalls of a lean figure in a dark hooded cloak, which steps inside and moves awkwardly among the pews, pausing every now and again to cast a tentative glance around the sleepy hall, with an air of someone who is completely out of their element.  
  
Somewhere at the opposite end of the room, a cleric shuffles by, her robe floating through the murk like a blurred white cloud. The hooded stranger freezes, each one of their muscles growing tense (almost audibly) and stands perfectly still - a shadow blending in with other shadows - until the cloud-like robe slides out of view. Only then does the figure begin to move forward again, just as cautiously as before, taking quite a while to approach the carved stone Prophetess, who reaches out into the rippling semi-darkness before her, with her feet bathed in candlelight.  
  
The stranger gives the holy image a long, intent look, and then raises one hand to flip back the broad, face-obscuring hood of his or her trailing cloak. As the cloth falls back, and the flickering flame tongues outline the stranger's profile in a fine brushstroke of golden colour, it is revealed that the Chantry's unexpected visitor is an male elf, with twisting, thorny vines tattooed across his angular, slightly haggard, battle-scarred face.  
  
A Dalish tribesman - certainly not someone you would expect to see inside an Andrastian church. It is hardly surprising that he has been moving about with so little self-assurance - and that he looks so uncomfortable, taking turns between staring into the statue's face and averting his gaze.  
  
After a few minutes crawl by, at a painful, snail-like pace, the elf clears his throat (shuddering at how loudly the sound contrasts with the dead stillness of the Chantry), and says, apparently addressing the Prophetess,  
  
'So uh, hello...'  
  
This awkward greeting is followed by another lapse of stifling silence, which the elf breaks after inclining his head and passing his fingers over his eyes and temples, as though in pain.  
  
'I must seem like a bit of a hypocrite, coming here... after all those times I laughed at the notion of being your chosen... But, er, you see...'  
  
He chews at his lips in evident discomfort, so that tiny, bleeding marks begin to cross them. The elf licks off the gleaming little droplets several times before finally scraping together enough strength to go on voicing his thoughts.  
  
'A wise man once told me that the world is bigger than any of us, and there has to be someone out there, watching out...'  
  
The elf closes his eyes and tosses his head from side to side; when he opens them again, they appear touched by an odd, wet glimmer – perhaps because the bright glow of the candles it beginning to eat at them?  
  
'I used to think that there once had been gods... watching out for my people... And that if we tried hard enough, they might return to us one day... I felt so happy and proud, being one of their children... But - but...'  
  
Here, he has to take a huge gulp of air to keep his voice from cracking.  
  
'But it turns out there are no gods. There have never been any gods. Just a bunch of slave-masters that treated us like property long before the humans arrived with their shackles and their alienages... And...'  
  
He bites at his lips again, his forehead ploughed by deep, pained lines.  
  
'And I think - I think I understand how Corypheus must have felt, when he went looking for his gods, and found nothing but dust and silence...'  
  
With a swift, rattling breath, the elf takes a few staggering steps back and then cries out hoarsely, staring straight into the statue's calm, indifferent face and clawing at the fastenings of his cloak,  
  
'It hurts! It hurts so much, wandering in the nothingness, under empty skies! I... I don't think I can bear it...'  
  
The metal clasp clicks open, and the cloak slips off the elf's shoulders, pooling up at his feet - and exposing a rather grizzly detail of his appearance. For the elf only has one hand, the right, which remains pressed against his throat even with the cloak gone; his left arm ends in a smooth stub of flesh, wrapped carefully into a half-empty sleeve.   
  
He does not seem to be too bothered by the cloak falling to the floor and baring his disfigurement, however, and goes on speaking, this time in a quieter tone,  
  
'This... This is why I came to you, I suppose... At least you were real, right? And if you were, then maybe... I mean, someone had to create the world, and the people in it... It all had to come from somewhere...'  
  
He heaves a deep sigh, appearing to gather his scattered thoughts - and then thrusts his only hand into the satchel at his side, pulling out a small, thin wax candle, which he sticks in between the other candles that are clustered in front of the Prophetess. He retains his pose for a few moments, leaning down to the statue's feet; but after a short while, he lowers himself to his knees (rather clumsily, as he has only one hand to balance himself with) and looks up.  
  
'So, uhm, I have no idea how humans make their offerings,' he says. 'Maybe it has to be some sort of special candle or something... But I could have never brought myself to ask, so have a random, ordinary, non-sanctified candle... And, uh, a request. If you are real, and if you are listening, could you do something for me?'  
  
With a slight flick of his wrist, he lights up a tiny spark of mage fire between the fingertips of his only hand, and hovers it over his candle. When the little sliver of burning gold jumps from his flesh to the thin stick of wax, he draws his hand back and drops his head to his chest again.  
  
'There is... someone that needs watching out for. He - he used to be a friend of mine. I suppose, in a way, he still is. He has a good heart, a remarkable mind, and a beautiful soul that resonates with everything that is pure and just and free... But he has made some terrible mistakes - and as he keeps trying to make up for them, he just gets further and further tangled up in these threads of... of darkness. The darkness taints him, hardens him... And now he is on a path towards destroying the whole world...'  
  
He swallows, and concludes, his voice now barely louder than a whisper,  
  
'So... Please... If you actually have an influence over things... Help him. Save him from himself. That is all I ask of you, and your... husband. Fen'Harel enansal. Dread Wolf's blessing. A blessing for the Dread Wolf'.  
  
He falls silent, and closes his eyes once more, still kneeling in front of Andraste's image, with the candle light warming his weather-worn face, gently softening the sharp, hard edges - while from the doorway, a tall, dark-haired woman watches him, a sad smile playing on her lips. And even though she is too far from the statue for the candle fire to sting at her eyes, they are glimmering too.


End file.
